Of Wedding Rings
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: Inviting Sherlock Holmes to one's wedding is unorthodox to say the least. To let him hold the ring is utterly foolhardy.


**I might not be the biggest fan of the new movie, but this is a thought that I simply couldn't resist. Note that the wedding ceremony between Mary and Watson was outrageously unconventional, even if it had gone over as planned. Also note that under no circumstances should one trust Sherlock Holmes with holding anything of importance _during _said ceremony.**

**Disclaimer: Buh. I wish it was mine.

* * *

**

"Ready to face the enemy?"

Among all the things one could hear on the morning of their wedding, that rated somewhere between hearing that your fiancé had been murdered in cold blood, or worse, she had called the whole thing off.

John Watson, however, had come to expect as much, and so he merely glared at his companion and returned to brawling with his collar, which refused to do as it ought. "I thought you were over that, Holmes." He grumbled, rolling his eyes as the blasted thing continued to veer in every direction but the one he wanted. "But if you feel so strongly, by all means stay here and don't bother attending."

From his seat on his beloved (and grotesque) tiger-skin rug, Holmes gave the sigh of a tried man, though the smile that quirked on his lips betrayed his amusement. "Really, Watson, I would hardly think you knew me. I'm simply saying that in this day and age marriages _rarely_ end pleasantly for both parties. Our dear Miss Morstan- soon to be Watson- could have some dreadful vice you aren't aware of. You recall Mrs. Murdoch, I trust? The woman seemed amiable enough until she poisoned her husband's cup and made off with the insurance money. I only wish to spare you such a dismal end."

"Holmes, Mrs. Murdoch was mentally unsound. She thought she was an orange by the end of the affair."

"Do you recall when I approached her with a spoon, Watson?" Holmes guffawed, and the noise brought a grin to his stalwart companion's nervous visage. "Good heavens, that was undoubtedly the oddest way I have ever apprehended a felon! To corner her with fine silver was always my intention, though I had thought it would be something decidedly sharper."

"It was cruel, Holmes. She thought you meant to skin her." Watson berated lightly. "And insisting on talking at length about the proper method of bagging fruit was unnecessary."

"Ah, if I recall you were in hysterics by the end of the affair."

"Well it _was_ comical."

"Goodness, Watson. Laughing over a poor woman's belief that she is a ripe _Citrus _Sinensus. Really, I thought better of you." Holmes tugged at his own collar and cravat, tied by the ever-doting Mrs. Hudson, who had threatened him with eviction should he not wear a proper, rented suit and wash himself thoroughly. "I will, of course, remind you of that if your dearest Mary ever comes to assume herself a grape."

Watson fumbled with his collar some more and let out an aggravated snarl. "What in _blazes _is wrong with this?" He exclaimed. "Holmes, what's wrong with my collar?"

"Besides there being a stain on it?"

"A stain?" Watson panicked, and the gesture so unheard of that Holmes raised both eyebrows in alarm. "Holmes, I can't go to my own wedding in a stained collar!"

The detective rose with his typical grace and meandered forward. "I kid, Watson. As for your collar, you've been attempting to put it on upside-down and with trembling hands. Here," He beat away the doctor's hands impatiently and made quick work of righting the mess, studiously ignoring the embarrassed red cheeks of his friend. "There we are. I'm afraid you're on your own for the cravat; I can't tie them even with a diagram." He sank into his customary armchair, watching Watson as he hunted for the elusive silver ribbon.

"Sherlock Holmes confessing he _cannot_ do something? The world might end around us." Watson teased, pulling up the cravat from one of the many small desks stuffed in the apartment. "I don't understand _why_ Mary insisted I wear this instead of my uniform." He confided in such a conspiratorial tone that Holmes snickered anew. After he had overcome his initial distaste for Miss Morstan, they had gotten along almost disturbingly well. In fact, Holmes had been one of Mary's 'advisors' on the wedding, which set a seed of apprehension in Watson's gut. Though he had no doubt that Holmes was as interested in his well being as Mary, he _was_ the eccentric detective, and she _was_ quite a bit more rambunctious than most women. For them to be conspiring together made Watson rather uneasy.

"I would think this way it will be considerably easier to remove." Watson spluttered while Holmes looked away innocently. "That, at least, is my working hypothesis. You are well within your rights to correct me if I happen to be wrong." He shrugged, running a hand over his lips as if to wipe away any building smirk.

Watson sighed loudly as he fumbled with the cravat. "Holmes, I won't be discussing the details of my wedding night. Least of all with _you_."

"Well that is certainly a relief. Goodness knows I've had enough experience with your romantic endeavors, Watson. At least now I shall have no fear of opening the door to positively carnal sights." Holmes left the statement hanging and Watson groaned, slumping onto the setting with his head in his hands. "Watson?" The detective was alert in an instant, clearly concerned though he ruled his expression in as always.

The doctor looked up, panic lacing his features. "What am I _thinking_, Holmes?" He croaked. "_Imagine_, being married."

"I rather not. I haven't a fancy for a woman's touch."

Again, not what he would have liked to hear. Watson rubbed an eye stressfully. "I never thought I would. What if it _does_ end badly? I hardly know what to expect." He buried his face back in his hands, facing the nervous demons that plagued him. It came as a shock to feel the steady hand of his friend upon his shoulder almost immediately as Holmes crouched before him with a solemn expression.

"You're being foolish, Watson. It's most unbecoming. If, and I say _if_ with the greatest doubt, it turns sour I shall help you feign your own death and we will go live in Portugal. I know the most _isolated_ spot, and I must say I have a knack for helping people to disappear." Only Sherlock Holmes could propose something so outlandish and make it sound perfectly reasonable.

Watson laughed weakly. "You swear it?" He demanded.

"By all means, good fellow. Now, would you like me to call Mrs. Hudson to tie that infernal knot of yours?"

"Yes please."

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Holmes called Mrs. Hudson to the sitting room, where she made short work of the 'infernal knot' and spent the greater part of an hour regaling them with tales of her own married life, even bursting into emotional tears at last and announcing that she had always known the good doctor would 'do himself right' in the end. Then she moved on to berating Holmes over his insistence on wearing his well worn brown shoes, which did not fit his suit at all. He retorted by flaunting the fact that he was the best man and therefore knew where the 'happy couple' (he accompanied this with a sneer) would be heading on their honeymoon.

It was five minutes to twelve when they arrived at St. Clement Danes church. Holmes observed with amusement that Watson appeared to be quaking in his shined boots quite literally, fidgeting with his collar as the time approached to enter. Inspector Lestrade and Constable Clark arrived only moments later, likewise dressed, and pulling at their own garments. "Nervous, Doctor?" Clark grinned mischievously. "Not surprised. You'll feel better in a short moment. Won't he, Inspector?"

Lestrade, as was his fashion, appeared genuinely sour at the close quarters he would be sharing with Holmes. Nevertheless, he looked at Watson with raised eyebrows. "You clean up a sight better'n the other one." He said mockingly, nodding at Holmes, who only pursed his lips. "Clarky's right, Doctor. Butterflies'll go away as soon as you get in there." He clapped Watson on the shoulder and glanced sidelong at Holmes.

Abruptly the bells began to toll above them, stirring the quartet of men to jump and look about. Watson had the appearance of a ghost as he approached the door, clearing his throat several times until Holmes laid a hand on the middle of his back and gave him a less-than-friendly shove. "Come along, Watson. We mustn't delay things. Remember, if all else fails we shall always have Portugal."

"Portugal? Wha' the devil've you got to do wit' Portugal?" Lestrade interrupted.

"Ah, a confidential matter, my good man. Now pick up your feet, doctor!" Entering the church appeared to be the last of Watson's troubles, for the very sight of Miss Morstan brought the skip back to his step as they met at the altar. Even a creature of solitude such as himself could imagine that Mary was quite a sight, wearing a simple white dress with sparing, but appropriate amounts of lace. Not the dress of a wealthy woman, but certainly that of a happy one. With her hair decorated with orange blossoms and a veil masking her just slightly, a more joyful spectacle could not be found if one searched the world over.

"Mister 'Olmes." He glanced down, spying three boys he could scarcely recognize. "Mister 'Olmes, we carried th' train proper, righ'?"

"Good lord Wiggins! I scarcely knew it was you!" Holmes squatted before the three little cretins, grinning as he took them in. "Mrs. Hudson certainly did not lie when she said she would clean you up." He ruffled their hair, blatantly ignoring his own duties as the best man to aid in the arrival of the clergymen. "Yes, you carried it quite nicely, I should think. Now be quiet for a bit."

Their wedding party, he observed, was an odd one indeed. Miss Morstan's three bridesmaids were reasonably suited for the task; the maid of honor was quite clearly a cousin, while the other two were no doubt good friends. Watson, however, had recruited two Scotland Yard officials and his best man was an individual to whom _marriage_ was synonymous with _mistake._ He had also introduced Mary to the Baker Street Irregulars, a messy little band of street Arabs that occasionally did work for Holmes that he could not do himself. Under the circumstances, the three best-behaved lads had become the children to hold the bride's train as she approached the altar.

Holmes rather hoped they hadn't managed to rob anyone blind yet.

He stood straight then and cast a look out upon the sea of well-wishers. The turnout was alarming; when first the thought of St. Clement Danes had emerged as a possible locale, Holmes had rebelled under the impression that there would only be a small crowd. Yet it appeared as though every past client and patient of Watson's had made it their personal mission to attend, as had a great many people Holmes perceived to be in support of Miss Morstan. The end result was the many pews of the church filling rapidly, and with so many eyes cast in their direction, Holmes felt mildly disconcerted, tugging at his collar.

The deep rumbling voice of the minister began to fill the building and he tugged again.

"Stop that. Don't go fidgetin' the entire time." Lestrade hissed at him, and Holmes balked at his reprimand.

"I can scarcely _breathe_, Inspector." He muttered back.

The man huffed and slapped his hand away when it tried to return to his collar. "Then you best smile an' suffocate, 'Olmes. This is—Oi! What in blazes are you-"

Like a bloodhound that had gotten wind of a scent, Holmes watched the open door of the church. Outside a typical crowd milled on, with the exception of one man who stood out, looking into the grand location with such an expression of shock that it was clear to see even at a distance. "Miller." Holmes hissed. "Responsible for the murder of Peter Harding, but more importantly his connection to Moriarty is well-known. I have taken to flushing out his hiding spots for months, but he seems to keep just a step ahead of me each time."

"You're not talkin' about _Flintlock_ Miller, are you?" Clark murmured. "Strange chap, that. He's got a knack of vanishin'-"

"-Without a trace. Yes, I happened to notice that." Holmes muttered. "But not this time."

"_Holmes you are in a wedding party, you cannot just waltz off after crooks!_" Lestrade snarled in one fell breath.

"Gentlemen, if I may _continue_?" The quarreling groomsmen looked at the minister. Two of them had the dignity to appear ashamed as Watson sighed into his hand. Holmes, however, nodded quite pleasantly.

"Indeed. Watson, I wish you all the best and I shall return shortly!"

"_What?_" The doctor exclaimed, as the many guests began to murmur in outrage. "Holmes, you can't just run off! For God's sake, all I asked for was half an hour of sanity! Just _one_ half of an hour in which you acted like a reasonable, rational, _compassionate_ human being!"

Holmes, however, already had taken two steps away from the altar and waved a hand nonchalantly. "Of course, Watson! And you shall have it! _After _I apprehend Thomas Miller before he vanishes back into the criminal ether!" He took off at a sprint. "Lestrade, Clark! I shan't ask the bridegroom to accompany me, but you may be of adequate assistance combined!"

The two Yarders spared Watson an apologizing glance, but promptly tore off after the detective. The call of duty, after all, was not something to easily ignore. The doctor watched them in mortification, and perhaps a trifle of envy, though he turned back to the minister promptly, aided in his resolution to remain when Mary patted his hand sympathetically. "Carry on. They'll… well, they _may_ be back in time for our departure." He sighed dismally.

"Very well. As I said, if you would present the ring…?

The ring…

Oh, God. The _ring_!

His moan of utter despair evoked Mary to grab his shoulder in fright as the minister waited expectantly. "Mary, he has it! Holmes has the ring!" He said frantically. "That utter _imbecile_ ran after a criminal with our wedding ring in his pocket!"

"Oh _John_," She sighed, though her lips were curved into a dainty, amused smile. "Why on Earth would you give him the ring?" It had been unquestionable that a wedding with Holmes in attendance would end quite strangely indeed, but she had not expected _this_. To have all the groomsmen run out chasing felons, one of whom was still holding the most vital part of the ceremony… goodness only knew what sort of superstitious bad luck _that_ meant.

"Habit, I suppose." Watson confessed dismally. "He's typically the one that keeps items of any real importance. I _knew_ he would do something mad, but I didn't think it would involve leaving the church!" He looked at his bride miserably. "What are we going to do?"

She mulled over it, and let out a tinkling, if exasperated, laugh. "Wait, I suppose." Throwing propriety to the wind (after all, any semblance of it had already been destroyed), she folded her legs beneath her and sat at the altar in a mass of lace and silk. Already they had forgone a great deal of the common rituals of marriage ceremonies, and if there was to be any great wait for Holmes to return, she was not at all interested in standing in such uncomfortable shoes. "Do sit down." Mary implored the rest of the party. "We might as well be comfortable."

With an expression of utter adoration, Watson sank down next to her and clasped her hand in his. "I _told _you it was going to be unconventional." He murmured amusedly as the crowd built up a dull roar with their whispered discussions.

"Mmh." Mary smiled and glanced at the many confused faces around them. "Is it odd, John, that I wouldn't have it any other way?" They shared a laugh then, and began to talk soothingly to the wedding party.

It was a half-hour before the door of the church burst open and the three missing persons loped down the aisle, sharing an identical expression of complete satisfaction. Though Clark and Lestrade had managed to preserve their suits besides some mud stains and sweat marks, it was clear Holmes had taken to a scuffle with their man without any consideration to what he wore. The right sleeve was torn, one knee had been ripped, and the entire thing seemed to have been rolled about in mud.

"When I recalled the presence of your ring, Watson, I attempted to hurry the chase." He explained between short gasps for air. "I informed Miller of the compromising situation he had placed you in, but he didn't seem too troubled by his inconvenience. So I decided to make short work of him."

"Knocked him out with one shot." Clark announced with clear admiration. "Bloody good blow, too."

Watson sighed in exasperation. "_How_, then did you manage to ruin yet another suit that isn't _yours_?"

"We attempted to take a short cut through the thoroughfare and I believe I may well have come exceedingly close to being run down by a mad hansom driver." Holmes waved a hand at the shocked gasps around them. "But, we have returned, triumphant in our hunt! For you, doctor!" He produced the elusive ring ostentatiously using sleight of hand and placed it gently in Watson's palm.

"Now then!" He clapped his hands eagerly and looked about the stunned church. "Where were we?"


End file.
